


mazy bloom

by feralphoenix



Category: Fate/stay night (Visual Novel)
Genre: Dom/sub Undertones, F/F, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, body image issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-20
Updated: 2015-07-20
Packaged: 2018-04-10 06:51:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4381619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feralphoenix/pseuds/feralphoenix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sakura’s vision swims. For a moment she sees herself as half of a many-limbed sculpture, beautiful, something she does not have to feel ashamed of looking at.</p>
            </blockquote>





	mazy bloom

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MiniNephthys](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MiniNephthys/gifts).



> _(The world ends with two words._ – hazy moon)
> 
> actually shirou/sakura/rider but one of these people is Not Appearing In This Film

The steam is like a wall; the mirror looks all but frosted. She’s dizzy, pulling in vapor as much as air; they’ve washed off in warm water but she’s probably sweating too.

“Watch,” Rider says, quiet, polite, hardly even echoing. On the other side of the screen there’s a drip from the faucet into the tub, the sound sending pleasant chills up her spine.

She nods hazily, obeys.

Rider holds her open, left hand soft along her chin and cheek to keep her staring into the mirror, right hand warm on her breast, nipple wedged loose in the juncture of Rider’s pale fingers. Sakura has left her own hands limp on Rider’s thighs, arched over her own to keep them wide. The heat seems to weld them together, Rider’s taut stomach against the small of her back, breasts pressed into her shoulder blades, nipples stiff. Sakura’s vision swims. For a moment she sees herself as half of a many-limbed sculpture, beautiful, something she does not have to feel ashamed of looking at. Even her pussy is a red-pink flower, pulsating and vital, not merely a constant ache to be filled.

Then her eyes focus again, and her face flushes. Her breasts roll with her messy breathing; hair, mostly hers but Rider’s too, sticks to her damp cheeks and scratches. She is empty, she is hungry; her breasts and stomach are the same deep pink as her face.

“Watch,” Rider says again, and releases her breast, slides her palm down against Sakura’s soft belly. Not low enough. The very side of Rider’s hand brushes up against her pubes but it’s too high for Sakura to push herself against. Her insides clutch. Thick wetness floods the lips of her pussy. She tries to squirm. Her clit is pounding like a heart but she needs something inside her: Fingers, a cock, a tongue, anything.

Rider shifts, and her lips graze against Sakura’s earlobe, and Sakura _mewls,_ the cry of surprise and pleasure reverberating about the room. And as though she had been merely waiting for this signal all along, Rider lets her hand slide down.

The press of her hard palm against Sakura’s clit burns her whole body, and Sakura tries to twist, to thrust, to close her eyes and turn away, but Rider is too strong: She can’t move. Can’t tear her eyes away from their vague reflection.

Her eyes slide in and out of focus; the heat (more Rider’s against her back than the veils of steam) is getting to her. Her breasts shake and sag, her open thighs are too round, her fingers digging into Rider’s legs too greedy, her panting mouth and the tip of her tongue against her swollen lower lip too lewd. She is a body that wants to be fucked, all the time; she wants Senpai coming inside her, Rider pinching her nipples, twenty-four hours every day. She’s too selfish, too broken, to fight her own programming. But her hazy reflection excites her as much as it disgusts her. More than.

“Watch.” It is the third time that Rider has had to say it. Sakura swallows, thrusts into the air when she feels her throat press against Rider’s fingers. “You will see what I do.”

Rider’s confidence is so absolute it boggles the mind; or it would, if Rider was interested in leaving Sakura the time to be boggled. But she is already sinking her fingers into Sakura’s pussy, and Sakura squeals, layering her arm atop Rider’s, gripping the steadfast wrist with her small hand.

The fingers are too slow, too methodical, stretching her open, a merciless press against her walls. Sakura wants ruthless speed, she wants orgasm, but she has to content herself with a rough palm against her clit and Rider giving her just enough room to undulate her hips.

In the mirror her stomach ripples, shining like the inside of a shell with water and sweat. The rim of Rider’s glasses presses cool against the line of her jaw while Rider nibbles the juncture of her throat and shoulder. The errant left hand lifts her breast, kneads, too close to the root for the sensation to arrow to her pussy. Sakura watches the red rim of her pussy tighten and relax around Rider’s wet knuckles and feels like a pinned butterfly. Rider’s breathing is a steady bassline against her own moaning.

It is sudden when Rider brings her fingertips together, rubbing steadily against one of Sakura’s favorite spots, sticky precome making the quick thrusts squelch. All of Sakura’s muscles go tight, toes twitching in anticipation, and Rider’s mouth is open and warm just behind her shoulder, thumb stroking her nipple like velvet. She’s drowning in the reflection of her own eyes.

Orgasm is wet and gives no quarter. Something twangs on the inside of her thigh while she soaks her pussylips and the base of her ass, sparks swimming over her dizzy eyes. When she is too weak to maintain her grip, Rider pulls her hand away, lifts up her knees. Sakura does not try to close her legs. Only while gazing absentmindedly at her reflection does she realize that Rider has not had to hold her head still for several minutes.

“Thank you for listening,” Rider says. Her voice is like the surface of a lake, perfectly smooth.

Sakura cannot breathe and form words at the same time. She lifts her hips. The mirror is foggy but not so blurred that she cannot make out the shape of her erect clit, the pulse in her lips.

Rider lies her down, tender, against the clammy wood paneling. It is easier to breathe here. Sakura lets her legs fall open, halves of a cleaved pear; rests clumsy hands on Rider’s damp silken hair as the tongue slips inside her, as the strong hands help her thrust shallow against Rider’s face. Her body hums, like a plucked instrument, like a lead wineglass filled up and stroked.

Balanced on the edge of her second orgasm, she does not close her eyes.


End file.
